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61 Zoe Brigley
61 Zoe Brigley
61 Zoe Brigley
61 Zoe Brigley
Date: Nov. 2007
From: The English Review(Vol. 18, Issue 2)
Publisher: Philip Allan Updates
Document Type: Article
Length: 247 words
Full Text:
Zoe Brigley was born in 1981 and grew up in Caerphilly, south Wales. She studied English literature and creative writing at the
University of Warwick, where she later obtained an MA in gender and literature and is now a postgraduate fellow. She has travelled
and worked in Central America, especially Mexico.
'Lonesome City Dweller' comes from Brigley's ambitious and original first collection of poetry, The Secret (Bloodaxe, 2007), which is a
Poetry Book Society Recommendation. It is divided into three sections. The Lesser Secrets takes its name from part of the Tarot
pack, the symbols of which are used to meditate on modern Western life, often drawing on the myths and sometimes the language of
Brigley's native Wales. The Greater Secrets travels from Wales to Central America, employing the structure of a 20-day cvcle in the
Aztec calendar. The Curse of the Long-tailed Bird explores Mexican mythologies and Western fairytales, interpreting the story of the
Spanish explorer Cortes through the narrative of Bluebeard. This final section came out of a collaboration with Julie Boden, poet
laureate at Birmingham Symphony Hall, who gathered together a group of women writers to write poems in response to the themes
of Bela Bartok's opera, Bluebeard's Castle. 'Lonesome City Dweller' is from The Lesser Secrets, and represents card XIV in the Tarot
pack, 'Temperance'.
'Lonesome City Dweller' is taken from The Secret and is reproduced here by permission of Bloodaxe Books.
XIV. Lonesome City Dweller How poor are they that ha' not patience. What wound did ever heal but by degrees? WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE She is the plain, the eclipse and ruined city where we walk at dusk through these riverbank tunnels; that
rose in her buttonhole: a tomb for wrestlers. On the skyline, the dome swells over flatter roofs, tug-boats on the river
and bright windows: she is the moon and the pavement and stepping shoes. The riverside cluttered with stalls selling
books; that puppet show features a wooden gentleman with a bowler hat (from here darkness blooms). She walks with me in
the emptiness of crowds, while I read that stranger's smile, this woman's frown: I am the eye and the window and
outstretched palm. Earlier in the cafe we overheard talk of her home country, more gossip of strife and death and she
stirred her long drink into a thunderstorm. Under the bridge she is thinking of her mother: that crossing in the ruins,
that city' pocked by gunshot. She is the dark and desert and memory: its walls invisible, its boundaries the sky.
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